


try me on

by loveleee



Series: i'm just a shot away from you [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship, School Dance, canon AU, except in the questionable list of potential plot points jughead is compiling for his novel, there is no murder to be found here, wholesome sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 03:10:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14946485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveleee/pseuds/loveleee
Summary: Veronica shakes her head. “You are Betty Cooper and you are my best friend and you’re planning this entire dance practically singlehanded, and you’re going to look like a goddamn princess at it, okay?”“Okay,” Betty says meekly.“And Jughead will help you pick a dress,” Veronica adds decisively. “Okay?”Without really thinking about it, he says, “Okay.”





	try me on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/gifts).



> Based on a prompt from the fabulous Raptorlily: "Jughead is roped into helping Betty choose an outfit for a dance or event or something. Challenge bonus: try to put pre-relationship! Jughead in this position and toss in a wardrobe malfunction."

Jughead slumps into the corner of the elevator, arms crossed over his chest, and watches as Archie presses a key fob against a shiny black box before punching the penthouse button with two fingers.

“I still don’t know what you dragged _me_ here for,” he mutters.

Archie leans against the other side of the elevator, twirling the keyring around his index finger. “We’re not done hanging out.”

“You’re literally about to pick up your girlfriend and go to band practice.”

Archie shrugs. “I’ve barely seen you lately, man. I miss you.”

He’s not wrong. Between football practice, guitar lessons, and whatever it is he does with Veronica behind closed doors, Archie hardly has the time to see his own father these days, let alone the weird loner kid he’d inexplicably befriended over a decade ago.

Admittedly, Jughead’s got his own stuff going on, too. The Blue and Gold, for one, which had somehow swelled into twice as much work now that Ethel Muggs had left the staff, taking on an after-school internship at a local graphic design firm for her senior year elective instead. Unable to recruit another writer, Jughead and Betty had absorbed the excess workload themselves, determined to get their first issue out on time without skimping on the content.

(At least, Betty had been determined. Jughead hadn’t really cared if they had to cut a few pages from the usual print – but when Betty had turned those wide green eyes of hers on him in a silent plea, it was clear how this was gonna go.) 

But that’s all besides the point. “Yeah, yeah,” Jughead mutters, but he shoots Archie a half-grin, and jostles him on the way out of the elevator and into the marble-floored landing of the Pembrooke’s penthouse suite.

Archie opens the door with his key, his possession of which Jughead still finds extremely odd, despite Veronica’s many assurances that it was commonplace amongst her friends back in the city. _Besides_ , she’d said, looking up at her boyfriend with adoration, _Daddy loves Archie. He has the_ utmost _confidence that Archiekins will_ always _be a gentleman._

(Not that he’s got a lot of experience in such matters, but if Jughead ever gets a girlfriend, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want her dad to like him _that_ much.)

“Ronnie?” Archie calls out.

“Archie!”

Veronica’s voice rings out from some unseen room in the depths of the apartment, reminding Jughead of a game of Marco Polo at the public pool.

“We’re in my closet!” she continues.

“Okay!”

Archie nods towards a hallway that extends past the kitchen, and leads Jughead through a labyrinthine series of turns that end at Veronica’s bedroom door.

There are two things on the other side of it that take him by surprise.

The first is Veronica’s closet. He’d imagined something large, of course – with her seemingly endless parade of colorful short skirts and silk blouses, there was no way a girl like Veronica Lodge didn’t have a gigantic closet. But never in his most cynical, anti-capitalist dreams would he have imagined that attached to Veronica’s bedroom was _another bedroom_ , or at least a room the size of one, stuffed with clothes and shoes and handbags and, somehow, even more clothes.

The second, more pleasing one, is Betty.

She looks surprised to see him, too. “Oh! Hey Jughead,” she says, as Veronica greets Archie with a long, lingering kiss.

“What are you wearing?” he blurts out.

Betty’s face floods with color as she looks down at the flowery fabric pooled around her feet, but before she can answer, Veronica whirls on him, practically leaping out of Archie’s arms. “It’s from Brock Collection’s pre-fall line,” she says. “Why? Were you going to say how _amazing_ she looks in it, and that she should totally wear it to homecoming next week?”

“V,” Betty sighs.

As far as Jughead’s concerned, Betty Cooper would look amazing in pretty much anything, up to and including a greasy Pop’s takeout bag. The dress that she’s currently wearing, however, is…

“It’s interesting,” he says, and instantly knows it was the wrong adjective to use, as Veronica’s eyes narrow.

Betty seems unbothered. “See? It’s _gorgeous_ , V, but everyone at school would have that exact same reaction.”

Jughead’s not thrilled about being held up as a proxy for their classmates at Riverdale High – they are, for the most part, a bunch of shallow, immature drones who would rather scroll through their Instagram feed for two hours than crack open a book or watch a movie shot before 1985.

In this case, though, he thinks Betty is right. The dress in question is floor-length, high-necked, long-sleeved and white, with a pretty, subtle floral pattern that complements the sweet pink flush in Betty’s cheeks. And if that were all to it, he’d think it a perfectly nice, if unusually modest, choice for a school dance.

But that’s not all there is to it, because erupting from the middle of Betty’s torso – right above the curve of her waist, at the precise spot where one’s hand might rest if one were to accompany Betty to said dance, _theoretically_ – is a series of ruffles. At least five of them, by Jughead’s count, cascading down from her waist. It almost looks like someone glued a child’s tutu onto an otherwise normal dress, and called it a day.

Veronica rolls her eyes. “Who cares? They think Ugg boots and a pair of black leggings are high fashion.”

“Ronnie, be nice,” Archie chides, probably because she’s just described every other girl at school who’s dating a member of the football team.

“I just think Betty should wear what _she_ wants to the dance, and not worry about what other people will think,” Veronica says, one hand on her hip for emphasis. “Right, Jughead?”

“Sure.” If the rest of the school couldn’t see how striking she was in _any_ outfit, that was their problem, not Betty’s. Though something about the way she’s holding herself in the floral dress – arms stiff, back even straighter than usual – leads him to suspect that she’s not exactly dying to wear this one out in public.

“Well, as much as I love it, I think I’d sweat right through it,” Betty says diplomatically. “You know it gets so hot in the gym.”

“Fair enough,” Veronica admits. “On to the next.”

Archie glances at his phone. “Uh, we actually better get going, Ron. We’re supposed to be at Josie’s by four.”

Veronica’s face falls. “But I picked out at least eight more dresses for Betty. And I _really_ wanted to see her in the Paolo Sebastian.”

“I know, but…if we show up late, they’re gonna think we’re not taking this whole thing seriously.”

By some miracle – or perhaps a sign of the end times – Josie, Val and Melody had agreed to team up with Archie and Veronica for a one-night-only supergroup performance at the homecoming dance. The thought of mopey, guitar-strumming Archie and bombastic, spotlight-seeker Veronica taking the stage with the Pussycats was almost enough to convince Jughead to actually go to a school dance for once.

(Emphasis on _almost_.)

“It’s okay, V,” Betty jumps in. “I’ll just wear my dress from last year. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.”

“ _No_.” Veronica shakes her head, and Jughead isn’t sure if she actually stamps her foot, Veruca Salt-style, or if he merely imagines it. “You are Betty Cooper and you are my best friend and you’re planning this entire dance practically singlehanded, and you’re going to look like a goddamn princess at it, okay?”

“Okay,” Betty says meekly.

“And Jughead will help you pick a dress,” Veronica adds decisively. “Okay?”

Without really thinking about it, he says, “Okay.”

Betty gives him a funny look. “Are you sure, Jug? I didn’t think dress shopping was really your thing.”

“He’s doing it, that’s all folks, the end. Okay, we’ve gotta run. Ta-ta, love you!”

Veronica flounces from the room with a dramatic wave, Archie on her heels, and Betty and Jughead are left alone, a pile of clothes and a sudden, awkward silence between them. Betty’s chest expands with a delicate sigh, and she turns towards the rack of dresses behind her, presumably the ones that Veronica had set aside for her. She pushes two to the back of the rack, and then pulls the skirt of something sparkly and green out to the side, staring at it for a moment before she pulls it off the hanger.

She seems almost startled when she turns around to find Jughead watching her. He clears his throat, looking down at his feet. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Her lip curls up in amusement. “You seriously don’t have to do this, Jug. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your day than watch me put on a bunch of Veronica’s crazy dresses.”

“Not really,” he says. Betty laughs.

“Well, um…I guess I’ll just – I’ll shut the door and I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

Jughead turns his back to the closet door just in case, and tries not to imagine Betty undressing. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens up his notes app, where he’s been capturing random ideas for plot points for his novel. Right now he’s got nothing to add, but at least reading through them all might serve as a good distraction from the sounds of zippers and rustling fabric, and the nudity they imply.

He’s trying to think of some logical way to connect _small-town murder of a rich heir_ to _biker gang_ when he hears the soft click of the closet door opening. “Okay,” Betty says.

Jughead feels his eyes grow wide as he takes her in. “That’s very, uh. Green,” he stammers.

Betty bites her lip, twisting around so she can see her back in the mirror at the center of the closet. It appears bare, the sparkly fabric of the short, tight dress dipping down low to the small of her back, but when Jughead looks closer he can see that it’s an illusion, some sort of thin, see-through mesh material covering her back after all, almost like a figure skating costume.

The same material covers the front of the dress too, giving the impression of a neckline that plunges almost all the way down to her bellybutton. The difference there, though, is that he can actually see the curve of Betty’s cleavage through the fabric.

Jughead swallows, and forces his eyes up to Betty’s face. “You look great, though.”

Betty smiles, looking suddenly shy. “Are you just going to say that about everything so you don’t hurt my feelings?” She tugs at the bottom of the skirt, where it’s starting to ride up her thighs. “It’s cool, but it’s very not-me.”

She’s right – the dress practically screams _I’m Veronica’s!_ Jughead shrugs. “You should wear something you’re comfortable in.”

“So like, sweatpants?” She flashes him a grin that makes his stomach twist up in knots. “I think Veronica would say this is precisely when I should be pushing myself _out_ of my comfort zone.”

“Good thing Veronica’s not the one helping you pick out a dress right now.”

“Ooh, snap,” Betty giggles. “I think I’m gonna try on this black one next.”

The black dress is pretty enough, knee-length and fitted at the waist, with a neckline that goes straight across her shoulders. Jughead likes the emphasis it puts on her collarbones, and he thinks about what it might be like to touch her there, to rest his thumb on the hollow of her throat and feel her pulse.

“It’s nice,” he says.

“It is,” she agrees, twirling in a half-circle to admire the way it flares out around her hips. “But _nice_ is so…meh.” She twirls the other way, and bends back slightly at the waist as she looks in the mirror, pushing her chest out. “A lot of dresses look nice. I want one that leaves you speechless, but in a good way, y’know?”

He isn’t sure whether she means _you_ as in _you, Jughead_ , or _you_ as in _you, random person who sees Betty in a dress_. Either way, his mouth feels dry.

“Yeah,” he says. “Definitely.”

Betty shuts the door again so she can change, but this time, she keeps talking, her voice slightly muffled through the door. “Did you get a chance to read my piece about Ethel’s internship yet?”

Jughead settles onto a plush leather ottoman a few feet from the door, and shrugs off his jacket. Like it or not – and deep down, he _does_ sort of like it – he appears to be in this for the long haul. “I did,” he says, folding the jacket in half and setting it in his lap. “It was really good.”

It _was_ a good article – well-written, well-reported – but what had really impressed him was the fact that it was so complimentary of Ethel, even after she’d left Betty and Jughead in something of a lurch as her departure had abruptly shrunk the size of their staff by one-third.

More proof – not that he needed it – that Betty really was the kindest girl in school.

“You think so?” Betty muses. “I felt like maybe I should have interviewed Ms. Burble, or one of her teachers, or something. To get a faculty perspective in there.”

Jughead shakes his head before he realizes she can’t see him. “Nah. It’s not relevant. I think you talked to the right people.”

“Okay. If you think it worked, that makes me feel better.”

A little swell of pride courses through him; he knows that Betty respects his opinion, particularly when it comes to the written word, but it feels good to hear her say it.

The next dress is pretty, and the dress after it is fine, and so on and so on, but none of them is _just_ _right,_ according to Betty. Jughead loses track of how many dresses she’s tried on – but he doesn’t really care, because the conversation flows so easily between them, the way it does when they’re working on the newspaper together, or waiting for their friends to join them in a booth at Pop’s. They talk about the Blue and Gold, and whether or not Principal Weatherbee’s new haircut is actually a toupee, and how crazy it is that after years of chasing a new girl every week, all it took was a single exchange with the new girl from New York City to make Archie Andrews settle down into monogamous bliss for two years and counting.

Betty’s in the middle of a story about her sister’s weird college boyfriend when her voice trails off, punctuating her unfinished thought with a soft _oh._ Jughead sits up a little and leans his head towards the door.

“Okay in there?”

“Yeah. It’s just…hm.” There’s a pause, and then Betty says, “It’s these tiny little buttons.”

Jughead frowns. “Yeah, I’m gonna need more explanation than that.”

He thinks he hears a soft snort, and then she says, “There’s these little buttons along the back and I can’t do them because I can’t see it right.” Betty pauses again, a long, pregnant pause. “Um. Do you think maybe you could help me with it?”

“Sure.” Jughead hops up from his seat. How bad could a couple of buttons be?

The door swings open, and Betty steps through it, her arms crossed over her chest. It’s not until she turns, displaying her back to him, that Jughead fully understands the situation.

It’s not just a couple of buttons. This dress doesn’t even have a zipper – the _entire_ back, from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck, fastens with a row of at least two dozen satiny white buttons. To make matters worse, the fabric being held together by the buttons can hardly be called fabric at all – it’s entirely see-through, even more sheer than the illusion neckline of the green dress she’d tried on before.

And to make matters _even worse than that?_ Betty’s entire back is bare, meaning she’s not wearing a bra – a realization that reaches his head at about the same time it reaches the front of his pants.

“So…can you do it?” Betty asks, and he realizes that he’s been staring at her for significantly longer than is appropriate for two people who are just friends.

“Yeah. Yes.” Jughead starts at the bottom of the row, praying that she can’t feel the slight tremble in his fingers as he fumbles the first button through its accompanying loop.

The first few are tricky, but once he gets the hang of it – once he gets past the fact that he, Jughead Jones, is touching Betty Cooper’s bare back while her bra is off somewhere in the other room – the rest go quickly. Maybe _too_ quickly. He finds himself slowing down as he reaches the last couple of buttons, savoring the occasional brush of his hand against her skin.

When he’s done – with a boldness whose origin he can’t quite place – he runs his fingers fleetingly over the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, biting back a smile when a little shiver runs through her. “All done,” he says, voice quiet.

“Thank you,” she says, equally soft.

It’s then that she finally turns around, letting her hands fall from her chest, and he sees what the dress actually looks like.

The off-white fabric of the skirt flows like water from her hips, embroidered shapes in iridescent thread playing across the soft folds. More embroidery creeps up the bodice, which has a deep v-neck that opens up the further it goes up her chest, giving the impression of delicate white feathers caressing her breasts. And as for her breasts…

Betty brushes her palms over the fabric at her hips. “Do you like it?” she asks shyly.

Jughead struggles to produce some sort of verbal response, but the only thing his mouth can do is fall open without a sound at the sight of her.

“Juggie?” She sounds uncertain.

“Yeah,” he manages. “Looks…great.”

 _Looks great_ , he thinks derisively. That’s the best he can come up with? When she looks like _that?_

No wonder she’s oblivious to the fact that he’s been crushing on her for a solid two years now.

Betty turns back towards the mirror, her eyes lighting up when she sees her reflection. “Oh,” she breathes. “I really do look like a princess.” Her mouth quirks, and she meets Jughead’s eyes in the mirror. “Is that insanely conceited?”

Jughead shakes his head. “No.”

Because as much as he doesn’t buy into the whole fairytale-fantasy garbage that tends to accompany the hype around these sorts of school dances – that’s precisely what she looks like. To quote Veronica: _a goddamn princess._

She giggles, and flounces the skirt with her hands a few times, watching the fabric drift slowly back down to its resting shape. “I love it. I don’t think I can ever take it off.”

“I can do it,” Jughead says, stepping forward without a thought, hands already reaching for the buttons at her back. Betty sidles away quickly, raising an eyebrow.

“I meant like, ‘oh, it’s so beautiful I never want to take it off.’”

“Oh.” Jughead blushes, tugging at the hem of his beanie.

“I mean, I probably will need your help, but. Not yet.” Betty admires the back of the dress in the mirror once more, and then sighs, letting her shoulders slump. “God, I’m going to look so ridiculous if I show up to homecoming like this.”

Jughead frowns. “Why? You look amazing.”

She shoots him another smile. “Thanks. But…I don’t know, it’s…it’s so _fancy_. And I’m not even going with a date, so…what’s the point of showing up looking like a princess when I don’t even have a prince?” Betty ducks her head and tugs her lower lip between her teeth, looking up at him through her long, dark lashes.

His heart starts to beat a little faster.

He really, really, really shouldn’t do what he’s thinking about doing. For one thing, he hasn’t been to a school dance since his disastrous appearance at the Winter Ball their freshman year, during which he had accidentally dropped a plate of chicken wings onto Cricket O’Dell’s pristine, white satin shoes. She’d retaliated by pouring a glass of fruit punch down the front of his shirt, and then (successfully!) petitioned the school to stock only dry goods at the snack table for future dances: pretzels, potato chips and the like, none of which were worth getting dressed up for, if you asked Jughead.

For another, it’s not like Betty is saying she wants _him_ to be her prince for the night. At best, he’s the mildly amusing court jester who might entertain her for an hour or two before cartwheeling away into the crowd when she finds her actual knight in shining armor.

“Don’t let Veronica hear you say that,” he says carefully.

Betty groans. “I know, I know. It’s like the least feminist thing ever. And I know that if I want to dress up and put on makeup and do my hair it should be because _I_ want to look good, for _me_ , and not some boy.” She shrugs, a wistful little smile forming on her lips. “But I can’t help it. If I’m going to look the part of the fairytale, I kind of want to act it out, too.”

In a weird way, he gets what she means. It’s why he still wears his trademark beanie, day in and day out, a decade after the first time he’d put it on. It’s why he dresses like _a_ _bespoke Unabomber_ , as Veronica had once put it, suspenders and plaid shirts hanging from his waist, hoodie pulled up over his head.

Why look normal when he couldn’t _be_ normal?

He shrugs. “If it’s your favorite dress, you should wear it. Who cares what people think.”

Betty scrunches her mouth up, twisting her ponytail into a bun on the top of her head as she looks into the mirror again. “Maybe.”

The moment – which he’s only half-certain they were having to begin with – passes. His hands are steadier this time as he unfastens the buttons, and when she’s back in her jeans and sweater he helps her wrestle the gown into a garment bag, along with the black off-the-shoulder dress, which she claims is her first choice for the dance.

“I’m only taking the white one just in case,” she insists.

The sun is just beginning to dip in the sky when they step through the Pembrooke’s grand front doors and into the fresh autumn air. Jughead’s stomach grumbles. “Hey, you wanna get Pop’s?” he suggests.

“I told my mom I’d be home for dinner,” Betty says, apologetic.

The diner is in the same direction as Betty’s house anyway, so they walk together for a few blocks, bumping arms occasionally as they each try to step on the crunchiest leaves on the sidewalk. A nervous, fluttering feeling fizzes up in his stomach, growing more and more persistent the closer they get to the intersection where they’ll part ways.

Betty slows to a stop at the corner of Elm and Marigold. “Thank you for sitting through that,” she says sincerely. “I know you were probably really bored, but I had a lot of fun.”

Jughead shakes his head. “Not bored.”

She smiles, and tilts her head as she starts to shuffle backwards down the street, in the direction of home. “G’night, Jug.”

“G’night.”

He watches her take a few more steps, and then a mild panic seizes up in his chest. There’s only going to be one more homecoming dance to attend in their entire lives – and after that, just a handful more opportunities to see Betty in a pretty dress. To see her beam with pride as their classmates praise the fruits of her dance-committee labor. To rest his hands on the curve of her waist and stand close enough to smell the faintly floral perfume on her neck, and maybe even pull her closer.

Just as she turns around to face the right way and keep walking forward, he calls out, “Hey, Betty?”

She turns back to him. “What?”

It’s now or never, he thinks. He jams his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, and takes a deep breath.

“Would you…would you maybe want to go to the dance with me?” He shrugs, lifting the side of his mouth in a half-smile. “It’d be a shame, for you to not wear that dress.”

Her face lights up so brightly he thinks he can feel the warmth of it from fifteen feet away. “I’d really like that,” Betty says, hugging the garment bag tighter against her stomach. “To go with you, I mean. Not just the dress.”

If it were physiologically possible, Jughead thinks his heart would burst right out of his chest and flop onto the sidewalk. Thankfully, it’s not, and it just pumps at a rapid-fire pace beneath his ribcage instead.

“Cool,” he says, and as he strolls away down Marigold Street, he thinks it may very well be the understatement of his lifetime.

A little over an hour later, as he’s polishing off his second burger at Pop’s, Archie and Veronica step through the door, cheeks flushed from the cool evening air. Jughead waves them over, and they slide into the seat across from him.

“Which dress did Betty go for? She hasn’t answered my text yet.” Veronica leans across the table eagerly.

Jughead doesn’t even try to suppress the dopey smile that takes over his face every time he thinks about Betty in her dress – it’s a battle he’s been losing every five minutes or so ever since he got here. “I think she’ll want to tell you herself,” he says.

“It must be a good one,” Archie teases. “Look at his face.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Did you ask her to the dance?” Veronica demands.

The question stops him cold. “I – huh? Yes, but – why would you even ask me that? I don’t go to dances.” Jughead glances down at his chest. “Did you guys like, wiretap me, or something?”

Veronica and Archie exchange a look of pure glee.

“Told you,” Veronica says smugly.

“I didn’t _say_ he wouldn’t do it –”

“Guys.” Jughead waves a hand to get their attention. “What the hell?”

Veronica folds her hands on the table and looks him in the eye. “You’re madly in love with Betty, and she wanted you to ask her to the dance. And before you ask, no, neither of you brought this up with me. I just know because I’m emotionally gifted. I took a test in kindergarten and everything.”

Archie nods sagely.

Jughead looks between the two of them in disbelief. “So – what, you set this whole dressing-room thing up?”

Archie laughs. “C’mon, Jug. You actually thought the Pussycats were gonna let us perform with them?”

Jughead slumps back in his seat, bewildered. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Oh, get over it. You’re going to homecoming with the girl of your dreams. The _real_ challenge is going to be getting you a suit in time.” Veronica leans forward, eyes glinting in the neon glow of the diner lights. “But don’t worry. Daddy has an entire closet full of suits even bigger than mine!”

**Author's Note:**

> \- If you're also a fan of Lili Reinhart, you may have recognized that the dresses Betty tries on are all dresses Lili's worn on the red carpet. Here is [the long-sleeve floral dress](http://www.celebzz.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/lili-reinhart-at-2018-cfda-fashion-awards-at-brooklyn-museum-in-new-york-city-6.jpg); [the green dress](https://s.yimg.com/ny/api/res/1.2/NJalKOlZY.sHkmzvNw3aVw--/YXBwaWQ9aGlnaGxhbmRlcjtzbT0xO3c9ODAw/http://media.zenfs.com/en/homerun/feed_manager_auto_publish_494/69498ee93a07617297dcb27d03f59b43); [the black dress](https://akns-images.eonline.com/eol_images/Entire_Site/201745/rs_634x1024-170505090842-6340-Lili-Reinhart-red-carpet.jpg?fit=inside%7C900:auto&output-quality=90); and [the princess dress](http://cdn01.cdn.justjared.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/cole-lil/cole-sprouse-lili-reinhart-art-of-elysium-04.jpg), which I'm kind of obsessed with (even though I ultimately agree with Betty's assessment that it's a little much for a homecoming dance, lol).
> 
> \- I can't resist secret-matchmaker!Veronica! I just can't!!! (I actually debated whether or not to include that little coda at Pop's. I still wonder whether it would have been a better ending to just leave it with Jughead walking away. But. MATCHMAKER VERONICA!!)
> 
> \- I'm not... _not_ thinking about writing a follow-up to this where they actually go to the dance. Interested?
> 
> \- Comments are so, so, so appreciated. I would be thrilled if you'd share your thoughts by leaving a comment. :)


End file.
